Nightmares
by Rosalie2425
Summary: John has nightmares, night after night, and eventually, he just breaks.


John wasn't much of one to dwell on nightmares and such. After jerking awake, he'd usually lie still and calm his breathing before rolling over and going back to sleep. He thought it was childish to run to another person after a nightmare, and also thought it very weak and vulnerable.

But lately, they'd been getting worse. He'd dream of being shot in Afghanistan again, but this time the shot was in his chest, and he'd be bleeding out on that hot sand with no one to help him, and buzzards would start to pick at his still living body. Other times, the nightmares didn't make sense. In one, he was running through a never ending alley with someone close on his heel, but he could never turn around to see who it was, but he could hear them gaining on him more and more until finally they grabbed his scarred shoulder and he'd awake with a gasp.

One recurring nightmare was he'd be standing alone at the top of a forty story building, with the wind in his hair and jacket, and he'd be standing on the edge, with a gun to his back. The wind would be pushing him away from the edge, but suddenly it would change and be pushing him towards the edge, and eventually he'd either be shot and fall or the wind would push him off into oblivion.

And every night, he'd awake with a loud gasp, shaking and sweating, and he'd hold himself until he managed to calm down, then he would fall asleep again, mainly from exhaustion.

But this nightmare, this one was different. In every way possible.

He was strapped to a post, his wrists shackled, and his shirt off. He was wounded in several places, some had ceased their bleeding and others were still gushing. Every part of his body was sore.

He was half aware he was dreaming, and the other half of his subconscious was whispering, "This is reality, John. Deal with it."

A door opened and a tall, dark figure stood in the doorway. It took John half a second to realize it was Sherlock. Relief flooded John as he realized he was being saved, but as Sherlock walked into the dim light overhead, he could see a riding crop and knife in Sherlock's hands, and the cold realization hit him: that Sherlock was doing this to him.

Terror washed over him, unwelcome and unbidden. "Sher..lock. Please, stop…I'm so sorry…" John could barely speak; he was so dehydrated his tongue was foreign in his mouth. He wasn't sure why he was apologizing, but he felt like he needed to. Sherlock's lips twisted into a cruel smirk and he lashed out with the riding crop, a cut opening in his stomach and John winced. "Sherlock, I'm sorry…please forgive me…" John murmured.

Sherlock snarled at him, and kicked him in the ribs, making John's breath whoosh out of him, and he fell to his knees, exhausted, his arms screaming in protest at being stretched, but his legs could no longer support him. He looked up at Sherlock, his eyes heavy, and tears began to stream down his face, and he whimpered a weak, "Sherlock…I lo-" but he was cut off with a sharp punch to the face.

John woke with a painful jerk, gasping loudly, his body shaking violently. He sat up and his breathing was erratic, and he tried painfully hard to calm it. Fuck…I don't even understand why that one was the worst so far… He stared at the ceiling, but all he could see was Sherlock's angry face, and suddenly, he wanted to be held. He stood up, his jumper riding up slightly, but he didn't care. He was still shaking and he had his arms wrapped around himself. He pushed his bedroom door open and began down the stairs, towards the living room.

He found Sherlock sitting in his chair, playing the violin. When John stopped at the bottom of the stairs, Sherlock turned his head slightly, continuing his playing, and murmured, "I didn't mean to wake you, John."

Instead of answering, John walked over and crawled into Sherlock's lap. Sherlock's expression quickly turned into a look of shock, before freezing altogether. John wrapped his arms around Sherlock's head and laid his head on Sherlock's neck. Sherlock put the violin down and left his arms limp beside him.

"John are you…okay?" Sherlock murmured, his voice tinged with distrust, like he thought maybe he was dreaming.

John sat there quietly, just enjoying having someone to hold onto before murmuring, "I've been having nightmares…it was really bad tonight." He buried his face further into Sherlock's neck, suddenly feeling the urge to cry.

"Oh…"Sherlock breathed out, and a beat later he wrapped his arms around John's body, holding him close. "Do you want to talk about it?" He murmured, almost sounding unsure of himself. Sherlock probably had no idea how to handle a weeping and sad John.

John thought it over a little and realized maybe the nightmares had been getting worse because he never told anyone about them. Maybe telling them would help keep them at bay. It was worth a shot. John sighed heavily and started quietly, "This one was different…I don't know why. I was shackled to a wall and I was covered in wounds…" he paused, the feeling returning and he began to shake again, burring his face again as a stray tear slid down his face. "It hurt so bad…then you walked in and I thought you were here to save me."

John could feel Sherlock tense under him, and Sherlock's arms tightened around him. "Go on," he breathed.

"But…I realized…you were the one doing it. You had a riding crop, and a knife. And I kept apologizing and begging you to stop, but you just hit me harder and I didn't know what I did wrong, I just-" John was cut off by a sob that made his chest hurt, and then tears began to flow freely and he sobbed loudly into Sherlock's neck.

After what seemed like a lifetime, Sherlock began to rub his back soothingly. John didn't even react when Sherlock hesitantly leaned over and kissed his temple lightly, unsure. John just sobbed louder, feeling an awful, emotional mess. "I'm s-sorry for this…I don't know why I keep crying like a moron…" John blubbered out between sobs.

"John, I really could care less. Why didn't you tell me before…about the nightmares?" Sherlock murmured into his hair, and John simply shrugged weakly.

He was completely sure himself. John just guessed he wasn't the type of person to share nightmares, and he assumed Sherlock wouldn't care anyway, and he wouldn't want to bother Mrs. Hudson with his idiotic dreams.

Sherlock moved a hand to the back of John's neck and lowered his other hand, and stood up, cradling John to him. Sherlock walked up to his room, which, to John's surprise, was very neat. Mrs. Hudson must've cleaned it, John thought idly, the tears slowing as his shaking almost stopped. Sherlock removed the hand on John's neck and threw the cover back, and lay John on the mattress, Sherlock following him, drawing the blanket back. They lay together for a long time, Sherlock holding John as John calmed down. His tears and shaking had stopped and his breathing was fairly normal again, and now he felt like an emotional, blubbering moron.

John looked up into Sherlock's face to find Sherlock watching him carefully, like he might explode into tears again. John glanced down, his face going red from embarrassment. "I'm sorry about…that. I don't know what came over me…" John murmured. Sherlock sighed, his breath warm on John's face, "John, you should tell me when you're upset, even if it's about things like dreams. Before they escalate and eventually explode." Sherlock murmured, though he didn't sound irritated, he sounded almost sympathetic.

"I'm sorry-" John began again but Sherlock cut him off, "Please, stop apologizing. It is fine, John, just go to sleep."

John searched Sherlock's face in the dark, examining his ruffled curls, his closed eyes, his eyelashes fanning over his cheekbones, before leaning up and planting a soft kiss to Sherlock's chin.

John then tucked his head into the crook of Sherlock's neck, sighing contently. He could feel the smile creep onto Sherlock's face as John fell into a peaceful sleep.


End file.
